


"if this was a real emergency, you would have more information"

by Lake (beyond_belief)



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Blood and Injury, Generation Kill Week, I Don't Even Know, Implied Relationships, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-23 19:31:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11996484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beyond_belief/pseuds/Lake
Summary: How to name your chickens once the world has ended.





	"if this was a real emergency, you would have more information"

The weather seems to have only two settings lately: a heat so dry the sweat evaporates instantly and Nate's mouth is parched just walking from the house to the shed for supplies, or a cool fog under a grey sky that seems to have a weight to it and leaves their clothes sticking to their bodies from the damp. 

The fog seems even heavier than usual the day that Ray comes. Nate is on watch, positioned in the backseat of the humvee that's nearly rusted to the ground in Brad's front yard, his eye to the scope of the rifle. They don't get too many scavengers these days, but the ones that do come tend to think they can sneak in right behind the setting sun. They've put too many obstacles in the yard for someone to navigate at night without a light, Brad's rigged up motion sensors at all the places scavengers used to try to cross, and Mickey's bite is just as bad as his bark. 

Nate still goes out at dusk every other night and watches until it gets dark. It's hazy this evening, the damp making everything he touches feel sticky, and the backseat of the humvee never seems to grow any more comfortable. There's a dot on the horizon, and it seems to be moving. He watches as it comes closer at a steady pace and the dot resolves itself into a human shape. If it's a scavenger, they're making no attempt at all to conceal themselves, which is strange. 

The shape is limping, now close enough that Nate can tell it's a man, in a hooded coat, with a beard shadowing his face. Then the man stops, cups his hands around his mouth and shouts, "Hey, Captain!".

The voice seems familiar but Nate still can't make out enough of the man's face to see who it is. "Identify yourself!" he shouts back.

The man pushes his hood back. "You don't recognize this old thorn in Colbert's side?"

"Fucking - _Person_?"

A grin creases Ray's face. "You're not still gonna shoot me, are you?"

"Get the fuck into the yard before some scav hears you," Nate calls, but he's laughing. He slides out of the humvee as he hears the door to the house open and Brad's calling, "What's all this noise out - what the fuck, _Ray_?"

"What's up, homies?" Ray asks. Then he stumbles slightly, and Nate reaches to grab him. "I'm all right, just haven't slept much so my leg is worse."

Nate looks down. There's blood crusted on Ray's cargo pants, but who knows how old it is. He jerks his head at Brad, and Brad comes around to grab Ray's other arm. "Well, you can sleep here," Nate says. "Let's get you inside, okay?"

"What's with the old humvee?" Ray tries to ask as they walk him inside the house and get him on the cot in the living room that's there for any non-FUBAR survivors who might make it this far out. There haven't been many. Ray feels too light to Nate. He wonders when Ray last had anything decent to eat.

"We use it for cover, mostly," Brad says as he maneuvers Ray out of his coat. 

Nate sees Mickey in the doorway, trembling with desire to investigate the new person, and says, "Mick, down. You can visit later." Then he crouches down by Ray's leg to try and see if it's still actively bleeding. 

"But where'd you _get_ it?"

Nate glances up at Brad, waiting to see if he's going to tell the truth this time. "Well," Brad says with a wry grin, "I stole it."

"Nah," Ray says.

"Enough about the humvee," Nate interrupts, because at least some of this blood is fresh, and he doesn't want to take any chances. "Ray, I'm going to cut these pants off your leg, because this is fucking disgusting, and we've got some clothes stashed that you can replace them with, so no arguing."

Ray just gives him a thumbs up and leans back on the old pillowcase they'd stuffed with rags. Nate signals the dog that it's okay to come over now, and Mickey scampers across the room to gently push his nose into Ray's hand.

In the kitchen, Nate ladles warm water from the pot they keep covered on the stove into a bowl, and gets some of the bleached rags from the cabinet. "I'm not sure what we can do if it's bad," he murmurs to Brad, who's taking the shears from their drawer. 

"We'll do what we can." Brad passes him the rubbing alcohol as well. "I'll fix him something to eat?"

"Not a bad idea." 

Ray's eyes are closed when Nate carries his supplies into the front room and lines them up carefully, but he's still stroking Mickey's head. When Nate starts cutting the material away from his leg he says, "It seems pretty fucking DIY out here, Cap."

"It is, but lucky for us, we got some good survival training in before the world ended," Nate replies. He starts washing the blood from Ray's shin, and after a few seconds, he can tell it looks worse than it actually is. "How'd you do this to your leg?" 

"Went over a fence running from some feral something. I got it cleaned and bandaged up okay, but I didn't have too many places to stay off it until it closed up better." He cracks open one eye. "Where'd Brad go with my coat? I got actual sticky bandages in one of the pockets."

"I think he went to fumigate it," Nate says dryly. "And I have sticky bandages, it's fine. Your leg isn't as ripped up as the amount of blood made it seem - as long as you stay off it now long enough for it to heal up, and don't bust the scabs off again."

"Sure, Dad," Ray sighs. 

Nate makes quick work of the band-aids, then lays a clean rag over the area so Mickey doesn't shed all over. "Brad's getting you something to eat, and Mickey will keep you company. I need to go finish our evening checks."

Ray reaches out and squeezes his hand. "Thanks, Nate."

Nate grips Ray's shoulder briefly in reply, then grabs his rifle and leaves Ray under Mickey's watchful gaze. In the backyard, the chickens are scratching at the dirt in their coop, pecking up bugs. The hens barely bother to move as Nate walks through them to check the fences on the other side, but the rooster tries to fluff his feathers and look intimidating. "Relax," Nate mutters. "I'm not here to steal your girls." 

He makes sure nothing needs watering in the small garden, then lets himself out the side gate so he can close up the humvee. It doesn't drive, but he doesn't want any strange ferals taking up residence. Brad comes out of the house as he's checking their makeshift motion sensors along the front fence, and sweeping over the bootprints where Ray stumbled up. He slides an arm around Nate's waist, and Nate leans against him. "You want to tell ghost stories around the fire tonight?" Brad asks.

"I doubt Ray needs any more nightmares," Nate replies, and Brad makes a considering noise. "Did you make your knockoff egg drop soup again?"

"You know it."

"Takes half a thing of Tabasco just to be palatable," Nate teases.

"Shut the fuck up." But Brad's grinning, and it feels good to make him smile. "You know it's been nearly a year since someone else was here?" 

It's a long time to be alone with only one other person. Nate admits the days started getting away from him in April, and Brad squeezes his side hard and says, "Well, it's not like anyone's making calendars anymore, so I guess it doesn't make any fucking difference."

"I think it's Wednesday."

"It's Friday, but close enough." Brad turns his head and Nate feels chapped lips press against his temple. "Would you mind if I slept downstairs by Ray tonight?"

"'course not. Don't think you fit on that cot, though."

"There's always the floor." Brad tugs him back towards the house by the strap of the rifle. The wind picks up suddenly, and Nate can hear the chickens protesting from the back yard. "It's going to be goddamn hot again tomorrow," Brad says, "guess I better go roll out the shade cover for the egg machines."

"I can do it," Nate insists.

"Or you could eat," Brad replies, nudging him towards the house. "Find out how Ray got here."

But Ray's asleep with Mickey's head resting on his good thigh when Nate goes inside, so he picks up Ray's dish to wash out, then gets his own bowl of Brad's soup. It needs Tabasco, as always, but that's more the fault of their limited supply of salt than Brad's basic cooking skills. He goes to dig out some new clothes for Ray when he's done, and the dog follows him upstairs, bumping his nose against Nate's hand as Nate goes through the closet. It's too damp too often to really store things in plastic - anything that could possibly grow mold is hung from hooks or hangers, and taken outside every so often to bake in the sun on the days it's hot. Nearly everything he and Brad wear has been bleached out by sunlight, and all their sheets and blankets as well. 

He finds some faded jeans that should probably fit Ray, and a henley with the buttons missing, and takes them downstairs. Brad comes in with a gust of wind as Nate's leaving the clothes over a chair. "Becky, Bucky, and Beaky are happy. Those other ones, I don't know."

"Didn't we give them all names?"

Brad gives him an incredulous look. "I wanted to call the rooster Fucky and you laughed so hard you cried, Nate."

Nate has a vague memory of needing to put his head between his knees, but not about the chickens. He sits down on the threadbare sofa and looks at Ray, still passed out, the bones of his face seeming to stand out even more with the beard. "He can stay here, right," he says, not actually a question. There are several dusty rooms upstairs, but the only real bed is the one Nate shares with Brad.

Brad lights a few candles as the room sinks into nighttime darkness. "I think we can figure it out." He sits down next to Nate and sets a candle on the small table. "If you even think about reading I'll blow the candle out."

"I already read every book we've got six times," Nate huffs. Brad smiles at that, reaches to rub his thumb along the scar on Nate's cheekbone. 

"What day is it again?" Nate asks, and Brad says, "Friday," as patient as ever.

**Author's Note:**

> For GK Week's Day 3 "humvee" prompt. Title is from a tumblr post that I can't find at the moment but it was about an emergency broadcast system message someone apparently saw and it was creepy and I thought "FINALLY AN EXCUSE TO WRITE THAT APOCALYPSE STORY WHERE THERE'S A HUMVEE IN BRAD'S YARD" that I have been yammering to people about for uhhh... two years.
> 
> The chickens are styled: Beaky, Becky, Bucky, Lucky and Todd.


End file.
